#langbbot

This was brought to you by my love for snarky, competent assholes, who just so happen to have really pretty eyes. Very unfortunate for everyone else, but Langdon fits the bill to a T.

This is also known as the “Shit, Langdon’s hot” fic, aka the “Robby fell first but Abbot fell harder” aka the “Robby’s in over his head in denial, while Langdon’s just living the dream; everyone’s miserable but Langdon, and the only person enjoying this more is Walsh” fic. OT3 Endgame.

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He had tried once, early on, to apologize to Langdon for leaving him behind. For Whitaker. But the younger man hadn’t been upset, or even cared. No, Langdon had laughed, as if the mere thought was ridiculous. “I really don’t care, Abbot,” he had said, an almost mean twist to his smiling lips. “You and Robby have made your positions quite clear, and as far as I’m concerned, we no longer owe each other anything.”

Jack nodded slowly. “I agree.” He searched those blue eyes for something, anything, that would indicate Langdon’s true feelings. But there was nothing—only a frozen lake of emptiness.

“Good,” Langdon had said, clearly more than done with this conversation. “Besides, I’m not the one doing anything illegal,” his head cocked like a predator, something sharp gleaming in the lupine angles of his face. Jack froze, his instincts screaming at him to run. “I’m not the one who’s sleeping with their resident. Again.”

Langdon had leaned in then, so close his breath tickled Jack’s hair, “Does poor Whitaker realize he’s only one mistake away from getting dropped like a broken toy?”

“Is that what you call stealing benzos? A stupid mistake?” Jack had scoffed, stepping away.

“Call it whatever you want, Jack,” Langdon said almost earnestly, the way he used to, nearly a year ago. And then the smirk came back, twisted and snide, and so, so very cold, “But we both know Robby was already looking for one reason or another to drop me.”

“What was it again?” He tapped his chin faux inquisitively, eyes lighting up with a fire so cold hell would freeze over. “Oh yes, ‘He’s getting too close. It’s making him act out, Jack’,” Langdon quoted, rolling his eyes. “I’m not deaf, Abbot. And I didn’t hear you deny it, either.”

“So you can take your apologies, and shove it up your ass.”

this thing I'm writing instead of working on LDRS ch.4

thanks @a-way-we-go for continuing to reinforce the RobbyFrankAbbot bug in my brain

Frank Langdon knows death.

In fact, he would say he and Death are old friends.

Death is a thousand things all at once, and nothing at all; a tree of life, or humans chasing immortality in the name of science.

Death is here, in this room, watching Robby die.

(A purely self-indulgent fic set in the nothing gold can stay verse. Absolutely no prior knowledge of like a tree needed.

This was brought to you by me listening to drag path by twenty one pilots over and over again, and kinda just over-relating it to Langdon’s life in this fusion world. The other song is shogeki by yuko ando, because it contains the lyrics “I will live on long after my bones are dust” and that’s just Langdon’s future here 😅. )

*this was brought to you by the image of Langdon and Abbot slowly falling in love through their own love for Robby, only for it to fall apart before they really had enough time to figure it out. This is Abbot, realizing that the love was here to stay, but finding out the man they both loved was long gone; someone else had came back.

Marked:

“Who the hell are you?” The question came as no more than a whispered breath, almost drowned underneath the AC sounds. Yet despite the frigidity, Jack was sweating up a storm; rivulets of sweat dripped down his goosebump laden neck.

Because Jack knew Frank Langdon the Doctor. Had worked with him long into one day or another; had stood side by side with him, as they tackled one horrific MCI after another; had laughed and shared camaraderie; had kissed him sweetly in the evenings, and fucked him senseless in the mornings. And sure, their relationship—for however little it lasted—had never been as emotionally charged as Langdon and Robby’s, but love had been there, in whatever capacity Jack allowed.

And though Langdon was not carved out of Jack’s rib the way he was created out of Robby’s, theirs was the kind nurtured in endless terrible experiences; shared and understood only by those adrift on the same, shitty boat.

But this man—the one who wore combat gear and carried a rifle like it was second nature; who moved so quickly even shadows didn’t ripple in his wake; the one who was shot right in front of him yet simply walked it off—Jack didn’t know.

Langdon watched him with those startling blue eyes—almost silver underneath the swaying hazard of a chandelier that haunted Gloria’s office, the dim light casting great shadows upon his sharp cheekbones.

He never looked more beautiful.

He never looked more dangerous.

A slow, lupine smirk crawled on his face. Like a predator sizing up his meal, Langdon leapt off his seat and crossed the table with the grace of an encroaching panther. Tilting his head up gently, Langdon placed a single kiss on Jack’s forehead. His lips were like ice, burning a spot on sweat-warmed skin, and Jack involuntarily shivered. His hands, where they stayed on his thighs, clenched tight over nothing.

Langdon murmured onto his skin, and though his voice was hard, it was tinged with the kind of sorrow that only came with regret, “Someone you’ll soon dearly wish you never met.”

Langdon pulled back, icy eyes blazing like twinkling stars for a split second—and Jack could have sworn he saw something splinter in the set of his rigid jaw, in his pink lips—and then he was gone. Leaving Jack with nothing more than a heat burned like a brand on his forehead, and a deep, terrible ache in his chest.